


Level

by starksborn



Series: Quicksand [5]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other, killbane gets a day in the spotlight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starksborn/pseuds/starksborn
Summary: It's not every day your enemy shows up bleeding on your doorstep. It is also not every day they pass out in your arms, and leave you to clean up their mess.
Relationships: Boss (Saints Row)/Eddie "Killbane" Pryor
Series: Quicksand [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/344660
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Level

**Author's Note:**

> so i know this isn't exactly the next chapter for quicksand, but while working on it (yes i have been when i'm not working 6 and 7 day weeks) i got super caught up in the idea of the events between magic bullet and blood runs red, but from KB's perspective. so. have a little killbane POV, as a treat.

_It couldn't come at a worst time,  
_ _used up all my lifelines._

* * *

The Boss is dead weight in his arms, and their blood is mixing with the water from the shower to leave a blooming, pink-tinted stain all over Killbane’s silk shirt. For a long moment, he does nothing but stare down at them as the water mists down around them.

“You little fucking bitch,” he hisses. He lifts one leg out of the tub and shifts the Boss in his arms, lifting them easily up and out. “Fucking show up on _my_ doorstep like this--”

Killbane grouses to the unconscious gang leader as he carries them to his bedroom and just barely catches himself from throwing them roughly to the mattress. Instead, keeping their wound in mind, he lays them gently down on top of the bed spread. He continues to cuss at them even as he finishes bandaging their wound and dressing them in one of his old Murderbrawl shirts. He pours himself a drink and paces as he sips, eyes darting repeatedly back over to where they lay. He knows enough about wound care to stabilize them, but without the intervention of an actual doctor all he’s done is make it so they bleed out a little slower. 

“Fucking _cunt_ ,” he says, through ground teeth as he slams his empty glass down. He finds his cellphone in his suit jacket and wanders to the living room, which has a _much_ closer proximity to the bar, to make a few calls. 

Within an hour a renown underground doctor and his small team of assistants are tearing up Killbane’s bedroom to turn it into a makeshift surgical theater. It is no small favor, and it does not come without a price. The doctor guarantees his work, and he guarantees that no one on the opposite side of the law will find out if he treated you or why, or where, or when. 

He does not guarantee that other criminals will remain as ignorant. There is no assurance that Killbane’s remaining forces will not discover what has become of the Boss, and that he is the one to thank for not letting them die when he had a chance. 

He puts away another drink and drops a stack of cash into the doctor’s hand as he shows him the door. When Killbane turns back to face the mess the doctor left strewn from his bedroom to his living room and even into his kitchen, he lets out an annoyed growl and reaches for a bottle of whiskey. This time, he foregoes the glass entirely and opts to sip directly from the bottle. 

He changes out of his bloodied shirt and tosses it, along with his pants into the washer. It fills halfway with cold water and he cuts the cycle to let the items simply soak, and adds a few freshly stained towels into the mix. He dresses in sweatpants and yet another shirt decorated in his own logo and busies himself with disposing of used gauze and bandages, and more than a few forgotten surgical tools. 

When he finishes, he finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed and watching the Boss as they sleep. It is, of course, not the first time he’s been in such a situation as of late. He and the Boss have been sharing beds with increasing frequency, and every morning he’s awoken to find neither one of them killed the other during the night has been a genuine surprise. He finds himself wanting to sleep, but the tension that has settled into his back and shoulders tells him that is not going to happen. He sighs and reaches for the TV remote, clicking it on as he stretches out next to them. The DVR recorded the big PPV over the weekend from a different wrestling promotion, and he uses the familiar sounds of matches being called and shoots being worked to lull him into an exhausted haze that pretends to be the comforting embrace of sleep. 

When he next rouses fully back into the world, he is on on his side with an arm over the Boss and it startles him into full wakefulness. He rises from the bed as if it is suddenly afire and blinks in the dim light of the TV. He shakes his head, curses the Boss once more and leaves the room to fetch more whiskey and a cigar. He hates this situation, but he in sure what he could, or perhaps should, have done differently. His entanglement with the Boss is becoming more and more oppressing, and he feels like any attempt to fight against it is just going to dig him in deeper. 

He feels, lately like he is fighting against quicksand, and nothing he does gets him any closer to crawling out of the thick, stinking pit he has fallen into.

With that in mind, Killbane pads back over to the bed and props a pillow against the headboard before stretching back out with the ash tray balanced on his chest.

He is halfway through the cigar when the Boss suddenly jerks awake, gasping for breath and struggling to sit up. 

“Well,” he drawls, “it’s about fucking _time_.”

* * *

_Gimme one more for the road,  
_ _cheap shots, low blows,  
_ **_what do you take me for?_ **


End file.
